The Music Lesson
by Riene
Summary: Christine has an evening's music lesson with Erik.


**Author's note**—This is the first part of a new _Night Encounters_ story, one of a series of unrelated vignettes based on the ALW musical and set during the fortnight Christine spent underground with Erik, when she was uncertain of her feelings for him. These stories follow the _Red Rose_ timeline, but some are darker than _Red Rose_, as they are set in an earlier, more tumultuous period of Erik and Christine's relationship.

My apologies for this taking so long, since I last submitted anything to FFN. An absent muse and the Real World have kept me somewhat occupied. ****

**Disclaimers****--**All characters used in _Night Encounters_ belong either to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, or Andrew Lloyd Webber. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, certain songs, the Opera Charles Garnier—all errors and liberties taken are mine. ****

Riene

The Music Lesson

Copyright 2004 by Riene

With a sigh she turned over the score and laid it face down upon her dressing table so that the mocking light of the gas lamp would not wink and glitter off the gilded title of _Tristram and Isolde_, Wagner's masterpiece of lovers torn apart. The winter concert season was fast approaching, and Messieurs Firmin and André were determined to line up a gala evening of spectacular vocal and orchestral works. It had been suggested that Christine sing the part of Isolde, the fiery and beautiful woman promised to be the bride of King Marke of Cornwall, but who secretly loved Tristan, the man the king trusted to escort his bride in safety to her new home.

She sighed, and leaning back in her seat rubbed her eyes tiredly. The director had berated her today for her poor performance, for failing to put sufficient emotion into her part. She grimaced. Singing the German words was not difficult, but Isolde's wrenching emotions were somehow difficult to convey when facing Ubaldo Piangi.

Christine glanced at the dainty ormolu clock on the lyre table by the chaise. Erik would be here soon. It was on days like this one she appreciated and even desired the soothing quiet and restful solitude of his underground home, despite the other problems such visits entailed. With a sigh she thrust away such thoughts, rose, and began to gather her possessions.

* * *

Erik drew his cloak about him to ward off the chill of the passageways as he stood outside her mirror in silence, watching his angel. She looked tired this evening, her shoulders drooping and shadows rested under her lovely blue eyes. Perhaps he should offer to cut their lesson short and escort her home instead…but the thought lasted only a moment before his desire to be near her once again. Softly, Erik raised his voice in a familiar low melody and was rewarded by Christine turning toward the mirror with an uncertain smile. 

"Erik? Angel?"

He modified the song into a soothing tune. "I am here." Deftly, Erik released the catch to pivot the heavy glass and stood waiting in the velvet darkness. Christine lifted her small parcel and walked toward the opening, fastening her blue cloak against the chill damp of the passage.

With a gesture, Erik held his gloved hand out to her, still compelling her to immediate obedience, even though she now knew the truth of him. What a little fool she had been, a naïve trusting child…had it really only been a month ago she had thought him a mystical messenger from her father?

"Come to your angel of music, Christine," he said softly, and steeling herself against the air of the passage, she took his hand and stepped over the threshold into darkness, aware of his probing glance.

"You seem tired tonight, Christine," Erik said quietly. "Do you want to continue your lessons this evening, or shall I see you safely to your home?" He lifted the small brass bull's-eye lantern from its niche and lit the wick, waiting for her response, his eyes reflecting the golden glow of the flame.

Uncertain, the young singer stood hesitant in the shadowed passageway, unable to read what, if any, undercurrents lay in his voice. "I am a bit tired," she admitted after a moment, "but I need to work on my new concert material. Might we go on down to your house beyond the lake?"

"As you wish," he said simply, and lifted the lamp. They walked in close silence down the twisting, narrow passages, his fingers lightly touching her elbow, a gently reassuring guide through these dark spaces. Soon, hewn stone became smooth natural rock, the foundations of the Opera. Erik leapt lightly across a narrow chasm where water ran beneath, and held out a hand. Trustingly, Christine jumped across the gap and her strange teacher caught her in his arms, pulling her against him briefly, steadying her balance. Christine stepped quickly away from his embrace, a warm flush on her cheeks, hoping he could not see her betraying color in this darkness.

Though no one could be more proper in their correct behavior, she was wary of personal contact with this man. She had no way of knowing if the deformities of his face extended to his body, though he felt reassuringly normal, his chest and arms hard with muscle. She sighed aloud and noted his swift probing glance, but he did not speak.

They arrived at the jetty where the black gondola boat lay moored, concealed from sight by the eroded stone outcroppings which formed the banks of the underground lake. Erik hung the lantern on its hook and assisted her down into the boat, then lifted the long pole in his graceful hands. Flipping back the edges of his long cloak, he began to transport them across the lake.

Christine leaned forward, trailing a hand through the chill water, aware of Erik watching her face in the rippling reflection. She was aware that a part of her responded to him, was drawn by the seductive dark aura of mystery and power he possessed, and the subtle pull of pity for his lonely, joyless existence. He both frightened and exhilarated her. Though unpredictably violent, there was something in his eyes that made it impossible for her to leave, for her to deny his simple request to stay and talk, to share the warmth of a cup of tea in quiet conversation and friendship, before they returned to the upper levels of the Opera. She risked a glance at him, studied his lean, elegant figure, seeing the lines of grief and weariness drawn around his face, revealed in his tight, slightly bowed posture. This man too knew what it was to be lonely…to not fit in. She caught her breath in sudden dismay. His unguarded expression was bleak, a look he had never allowed her to see, but that she sometimes heard in his voice.

And it was his voice, with its faint, elusive quality of wistfulness which pulled at her unwilling heart. That rich velvet tone, with its incredible purity of resonance, held echoes of longing, of loneliness, often these recent weary days. It was impossible to ignore, and impossible to respond to. She shut her eyes briefly, leaning her cheek against her hand, gazing at the lantern's golden light splintering and reflecting in the ripples. It would be so easy, she knew, to succumb to the allure of that voice again, to suspend her mind and let it float again upon the waves and currents of emotion from that haunting tone. To not think, to exist only in this strange dream-like world of warmth, of glowing molten candlelight, of music, of the darkness of the night.

It was so difficult to think sometimes. Her emotions flickered so close to the surface, drawn by Erik's compelling personality, his vast intelligence and experience, the depth of his unspoken love for her. In those times it would be so easy to touch him, to reach out and let him pull her into the soft velvet comfort of his embrace; yet the knowledge of what lay beneath that cold porcelain mask held her back, kept those reactions in check. Her world was different now, her eyes opened in the sudden shock of glaring daylight.

She thought again of Raoul, the handsome sun-bronzed Vicomte de Chagny. Her life with him could be so very different someday. She knew his family disapproved of their liaison, but he had assured her their displeasure was of no concern.

_"If you were to marry me, Christine, we could live at my family's estate in __Beauvais__. Philippe far prefers the allure and amenities of Paris, but I've always been fond of the countryside. You'll like the landscape around there; it's lovely in the summer. We've a large estate; my family has been there for generations." He spoke with growing enthusiasm. "We've a stable of fine horses, hunters, mostly, but we'd get you a gentle riding mare. There is a small lake on the property, with swans and all manner of water fowl, even deer. I wouldn't be gone all the time with my regiment, and perhaps," here the color rose to darken his high cheekbones, "perhaps," Raoul continued softly, "there would soon be a child for us. You'd not be lonely, my love, my family has many cousins and friends in the area."_

Raoul offered her a chance at happiness, wrapped securely in a glowing fairy-tale of love and security, as his wife. And yet… there was this proud, stern figure, silently poling the gondola boat across this underground lake, toward his home, filled with books, music, and quiet peace.

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please review. Criticism, suggestions, and compliments are accepted well. Part two hopefully coming soon! 


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